


Because One Day I'll Leave You

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Grief/Mourning, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-19 17:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The Doctor commemorates an old friend.





	Because One Day I'll Leave You

The Doctor comes back here as often as she can. She knows she shouldn’t; knows the risks involved, and battles with herself as her rational brain lists the dangers in a ceaseless, noisy litany, but there’s something about the calm and tranquillity of it that keeps drawing her back. It’s quiet and peaceful; shrouded from the noise and bustle of the city by a perimeter of trees whose canopies mesh together like a protective shield, keeping away all reminders that you’re in the middle of an urban sprawl she had once proclaimed, almost gleefully, to be a dump.

This particular part of the city is as far from a dump as she can imagine. In summer, when the sunlight slides through the leaves on the trees in dappled rays of shade, she closes her eyes and turns her face upwards like a child, enjoying how the light plays over her skin. In autumn, she trudges through the crisp carpet of leaves with over-exaggerated footsteps, stomping on particularly crispy-looking specimens and sometimes plunging an unwitting foot into a concealed puddle, grimacing as muddy water splashes against her calves, chill and invigorating. When the winter snow blankets the landscape in a coat of sparkling, unblemished white, she shoves her hands deep into her pockets and watches her breath crystallise in front of her face as she walks the familiar route, her feet finding the way without need of conscious guidance.

It is only the spring she dreads; loathing the sheer uncertainty of it all – the occasional sun and the unpredictable downpours, drenching her as she makes her pilgrimage. The rain makes her feel wrung out and exhausted; where once it had signalled new life and new beginnings, now it brings only dampness and sorrow, and causes rivulets of water to trickle down her cheeks, mixing with tears until she can no longer tell what’s her and what’s the weather.

This time, when she arrives, it’s summer. She’s tucked a bunch of flowers under her arm – normal flowers, of the Earthly variety – and the scent envelopes her as she walks. She’d tried bringing alien lilies once, radiant and never-wilting, and the attention they had drawn had made her physically nauseous. She’d wanted to drive the gawpers away from their positions of fascinated incredulity; wanted to scream and shout and lose her temper at them for showing such blatant disrespect for the sanctity of ground; but she daren’t. Not here. Not when this place is so important.

She summits the low hill and steps away from the main path, heading into the shade with a blissful sigh. The summer sun is pleasant enough, she supposes, but the tarmac and glass of the city amplifies the heat and throws it back at its inhabitants with something akin to malevolence, and even she feels the stickiness of it all. No, the shade is welcome, and she inhales deeply as she approaches her destination, tasting pollen and pollution and a thousand other things she can’t place a name to. She focuses on counting the steps now, picking out familiar landmarks, and she swallows thickly as she recites the numbers in her head in time with her movements.

_Thirty._

_Twenty-nine._

_Twenty-eight._

_Twenty-seven._

And so on, until she draws to a halt and raises her head, taking in the sight before her with the usual swoop of warm familiarity and cloying, claustrophobic guilt.

“Hi,” she says softly, crouching down and running a hand over the cool marble before her, letting her thumb brush over the name carved there. “Missed you.”

The engraving never says anything back, but she doesn’t expect it to. Just being here and sharing the words is enough to make her feel as though she’s back in the good old days, engaging in playful conversation with the occupant of the narrow patch of ground before her.

_Clara Oswald._

_Beloved daughter, teacher, and friend._

_1986 – 2016_

She runs a fingertip over the final date and then circles the grave to where she’s added her own etchings. She’d felt a lurch of disappointment at the reductive, simplistic nature of the words chosen by – presumably – Clara’s family, and so she’d taken matters into her own hand, setting up a small perception filter and adding a dedication of her own. No human would be able to read them – she doubted anyone in the universe would be able to, save herself and perhaps Missy – but knowing they were there brought her a degree of comfort.

_Beloved companion. Saver of worlds. Hero._

_Her sacrifice was without measure, and without reward._

_Forever missed._  

She runs her fingertips over the intersecting lines and circles of Gallifreyan, allowing herself to smile a little at the familiar words. Below them, there’s a plethora of spray-painted flowers that she’d employed Rigsy’s help with, their bright blooms stark against the pale marble, and a sharp contrast to the blank, clinical nature of the stones which flank Clara’s. It’s not much, but it’s more personal and compassionate than the other side of the headstone, which seems cold and unfeeling; words picked from a computer screen, and dates which she supposes are technically right, but would have made Clara smile; is time truly so linear? 

There’s myriad specks of pollen coating the marble like golden dust, and she extracts the sonic from her pocket, waving it over them and watching as they lift gently into the air and rearrange themselves over the nearby grass in unison. 

“There,” she says warmly, sitting cross legged in front of the headstone and affixing it with a sad smile. “That’s better, isn’t it? Can’t have you all sticky and covered in pollen. I know it’s only doing its best to bring new life, but I also know what you’re like; you’d want to look perfect. Even… even now.” 

She looks over at the small, sunken vase beside the headstone and lets out a sigh that’s half-sorrow, half-irritation. She’d hoped – perhaps foolishly – that perhaps students would bring flowers from time or time; or UNIT personnel. It breaks her heart to see the vase devoid even of dead blooms, and she resolves to send Kate a strongly-worded email upon her return to the TARDIS; one intended to remind her of precisely what Clara had done for this planet, and did she not at least deserve occasional floral tributes? 

For now, she instead gets to her feet and trudges off towards the nearest tap, her own blooms still held safely under her arm. She supposes some people might be confused by this dutiful pilgrimage; some of her allies and enemies might find it strange that she visit the cemetery so religiously. It is, however, the least she can do for a woman of such truly extraordinary mettle, and so she returns, time and time again, to ensure that her memory is never tarnished and never forgotten; tending to the grave and telling her about the wonders she’s seen. 

She casts her mind back to the week’s events as she fills the decrepit watering can under the shuddering, ancient tap. There’s a lot to tell Clara, and she smiles in anticipation; imagining what her companion would have made of it all, and trying to summon up the energy to construct a mental dialogue between the two of them; wondering how accurately she can fill in the gaps where her friend would have spoken. As she heads back to the grave, she’s fairly sure she’s got Clara’s voice down to a T, so she fills the vase and arranges her flowers with casual ease, allowing them to fall in the most natural of ways, before starting to speak. 

A few metres away, hidden by the trunk of a spreading oak tree, Clara arranges herself more comfortably, and listens.


End file.
